


Bleached Bones and Fallen Snow

by leveragehunters (Monkeygreen)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: (a bit), Angst, Canon Divergence (maybe? comics yes; MCU who knows) - Red Room Natasha never met the Winter Soldier, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The First Avenger, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Canon Divergence - Magical Realism, Canon Divergence - SHIELD not completely infested with HYDRA, Canon-Typical Mental Brutality, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Steve Rogers, Death Steve, M/M, Magical Realism, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Skinny Steve, Steve is Death, minor Alexander Pierce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-29 20:44:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8504761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monkeygreen/pseuds/leveragehunters
Summary: When he chose to become Death he wasn't sure exactly what it would mean. He didn't realise he'd end up leaving humanity behind completely, forgetting all the ways he used to be human. Forgetting, that was, until in the middle of a war, his power spreading itself like wings over the battlefields, he discovered one particular human it was impossible to stay away from.  Brave, fascinating, irresistible: again and again, he kept coming back to Bucky. Bucky, who was never afraid of him, who seemed content to walk in Death's shadow.If he'd known where it would lead him, where it would lead both of them, he would have tried harder to resist. (A First Avenger/ Winter Soldier AU where Steve is Death.)





	1. Prologue: A Very Long Time Ago

**Author's Note:**

> When I started this I knew it wasn't going to be my usual fluff-fest, but I didn't envisage ending up here. I truly don't know what happened. You probably noticed I _Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings_. If you want to take a leap of faith, read on (it's not rape or underage, I promise). If you'd like some reassurance, [I've put an explanation in the end note of chapter 4](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8504761/chapters/19490512#chapter_4_endnotes), with sufficient white space to keep you from seeing any of the epilogue, but it's an explanation that can't help but come with spoilers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I chose the name Istfan for Steve here in the beginning because, given how long ago this prologue takes place, Steve wouldn't make sense and (according to Wikipedia), Istfan is a version of Steven from a language that's been around for an extremely long time in the generally correct geographic area.

* * *

 

When his mother laboured to bring him into the world a flock of crows flew across the sky, cawing out ill omens. No one was surprised when he was born small and sickly, spine twisted like a tree branch, when he struggled for breath, when his eyes were touched by ancient frost, hiding colours from his sight.

Istfan couldn't hunt and he couldn't dig, but sometimes his fingers could be clever, letting him spin wool for a short time—until his back screamed and his hands froze and he had to stop and take long slow breaths. He could watch the youngest children while the men and women and older children, those who were strong and whole, did what was needed to keep their tiny village alive.

Though he was born into the world on wings of ill-luck the people of the village never saw him as a burden. He was theirs, he was part of them, he was loved, and they did their best to keep him safe and whole.

But the years rolled past into lean harvests and leaner beasts in the forests and fields. The winter came down, harsh and unforgiving. Istfan knew, they all knew, that what they had would not likely see them all alive into spring.

Sitting bundled in a thick fur in front of the fire, staring into the flames, he could hear the sounds of his kith and kin—their soft breaths, so different from his harsh ones; their low voices, someone's raised in quiet song. He was a mouth and a belly, a twisted spine and a weak body. His loss wouldn't be a loss that would hurt them, that would lessen their chance at future survival. His loss would _help_. And really, in a winter this harsh, wouldn't he simply be hastening the inevitable?

There was something he could offer them. Something that would mean more of those he loved would live to see the warmth of spring.

He waited until everyone was asleep, because they'd stop him if they knew what he intended. When he stood, careful and quiet, no one stirred, as if in this moment the goddess saw fit to grant him the grace he naturally lacked. The snow was deep as he moved silently out into the night and the cold, the sky black and clear, the full moon a distant point of light. He bowed his head, set his jaw, and walked.

Time passed and he grew colder, couldn't feel his feet. He was growing tired, so tired, and he curled down into the snow and closed his eyes. He could feel his heart slowing, could feel himself falling away, and nothing hurt.

For the first time in his life nothing hurt and he smiled and opened his eyes.

There was a man leaning over him, tall and broad with skin as dark as the night sky and kinder eyes than he'd ever seen. "Who are you?"

"I'm Death."

He nodded, because here in this moment that made sense.

"Why are you out here alone in the cold?"

"My family, my people, they don't have enough food to last the winter and I'm—" He stopped, not sure how to go on, and Death gave him an exasperated look.

"You thought they'd have a better chance without you, that they could afford to lose you." Death settled a hand on his shoulder and it was gentle and warm. Something fluttered to life inside Istfan. "So you walked out into the cold to die."

He nodded.

"That was quite stupid."

He nodded again, because he couldn't really argue with Death, but just because it was stupid didn’t mean it was _wrong_. "Will you take me to the feasting fields or will I go to the sea caves with those who've led unworthy lives?"

"Where you go now is between you and your beliefs, but," Death urged him to sit up and he did, "I might have another choice to offer you."

"I doubt you're offering to let me sit at the goddess' right hand. That's only for the greatest of heroes."

The look Death gave him was speculative, but he shook his head. "I _can_ open the door so you can go on to your ever after. But what I'd like to offer you instead is the choice to take my place."

Istfan's eyes went wide. "Your place."

Death nodded.

"You mean as Death."

Death nodded again.

He shrank back, the hand on his shoulder suddenly feeling threatening. "I don't want to kill people."

"My name is Death, not Killer," Death said, gently teasing. "I don't kill people. I couldn't even if I wanted to. That's not Death's job. Death's job is to lift people's spirits from their bodies and open their doors so they can go on to their ever after, whatever that might be."

"Why?" Istfan couldn't contain his bafflement as he stared up at Death.

Death squeezed his shoulder, then glanced around, eyes lighting on a rock which he sat down on with a long sigh. "Because I'm tired. I've been Death for a very long time. I was once like you, only I came from a place under the burning sun instead of this land of snow and ice. Death offered me the same choice. I took it, because I wasn't ready to learn what waited for me on the other side of my door. I'm ready now. I've been looking for someone to take my place for quite awhile."

"Why are you asking _me_?"

"Because, foolish as it was, you walked into the cold and died to give the people you love a better chance of surviving the winter. Because you don't want to kill people. Because you have compassion. Because it means you're a good man. That's what I've been searching for."

Istfan wrapped his arms around himself and looked away. His gaze slipped down and landed on his body, lying in the snow. Death had lifted him free already, he realised. He was dead. He shivered, sorrow rising as he imagined his people finding him. "I just didn't want them to die if I could give them, give even one of them, a chance."

There was a light touch on his arm. A soft touch. Death wrapped a hand around his wrist. "I know." Gentle pressure urged him closer. "Come here." Death was pulling him into his arms and he went, curled into him and felt safe, felt protected, felt something he didn't have a word for. "I'll open the door for you if that's what you want." Death stroked a hand through his hair. "But please, consider my offer."

He rested his forehead on Death's shoulder, trying to think. "I don't," he said. Stopped. Tried again. "What would it mean?"

"I can show you. If you'll let me, I can show you. It will hurt a little."

He couldn't help laughing, a bright sound in the snowy night, and Death grinned, showing white teeth. "I'm not afraid of pain," he said wryly, lifting his chin in challenge, and Death's eyes glinted in response. "Show me."

Death pressed a finger against his temple and his mind was filled with the knowledge, with the _memory_ , of what it was to be Death: the power, and yes, the loneliness, but so much more that overshadowed it. The ability to help so many people, people dying in pain and alone, to free their spirits and open the door to their ever afters. To be everywhere, to see the entire world.

And the ability to help Death himself, who had been alone for so long, who had been Death for so long. It was time for him to be free.

He leaned back and met Death's eternity-studded eyes. "Yes. I'll do it."

 

* * *

 

His people found Istfan's body in the snow and they mourned him, mourned his loss, deeply.

They knew what he'd done. They knew why he'd done it. Because they _knew_ him. And they might have muttered among themselves that he was foolish to have done it, but still they placed his body on the highest platform in the village, to make sure it was the closest to the sky, so the goddess would see his gleaming bones and know him as they had.

In the end they survived the winter by the slimmest of margins. No one else died. It might have been that Istfan's sacrifice was the reason. It's impossible to know the truth of might-have-beens, but for as long as their little village existed, he was remembered.

 

* * *

 

It was strange, being Death. Istfan wasn't sure why that came as a surprise, but it did.

He didn't have to attend personally to each person in the world; that would have been impossible. Wherever he _actually_ was in the world, he was everywhere all the time: in every place and every space that a human could be...and could cease to be. Every place a heart could stop beating, a breath could stop being drawn.

Most people died as they had lived: simply and without elaborate fanfare. They didn't need him.

It took him awhile to accept that.

In the beginning he _tried_ to be there for every death. He was Death. He'd accepted the job. If someone died, he wanted to be there in case they needed him, needed him to free their spirit and open the door _personally_.

It almost killed him.

Not literally, of course. He was both dead and Death. He couldn't die. Nothing in the human world could affect him and he could affect nothing in the human world, walking through walls and mountains and oceans as if they weren't there. He couldn't even touch people, couldn't be seen by them, unless they were _going_ to die, or _might_ die, the probabilities undecided, or the concentration of death was incredibly high. He could, however, _feel_ like he was going to die, exhausted mentally and emotionally by trying to attend personally to every person in the world.

Eventually, he reached a point where he couldn't move, just sat slumped at the base of a cliff next to the body of an old woman who'd tumbled down it while she was herding her goats. He'd lifted her spirit free and found he didn't have the energy to open her door. Now she was standing over him, hands planted on her hips. "Well, open my door," she demanded.

"I can't right now," he said apologetically. "I just need a second to rest."

Her eyes narrowed. "Rest." Part of Istfan cringed, because he recognised _that_ tone. It was the tone that came before a blistering lecture, when one of the Elders had caught him doing something he wasn't supposed to do, overtaxing himself when they'd warned him not to, because it would make him breathe badly or his back go into spasms. "You're obviously not looking after yourself. How do you expect to do your job properly if you don't look after yourself? Skinny young thing like you. Back when I was young, Death was a big handsome man," her eyes grew dreamy, "eyes like the night sky." Istfan coughed pointedly and she shook herself. "And if you can't do your job how am I supposed to make my way to the Snake Goddess of the Three Rivers? I've been promised to her since I was a child and I can't get there if you don't open my door." She eyed him sternly. "You need to herd your goats in a line, young man, or they're going to scatter and then you'll have no goats."

"Yes, Elder." The response was ingrained, automatic. He may be Death _now_ , but he'd been Istfan for a lot longer and Istfan respected his Elders. Or, as in this case, feigned it extremely well.

"Hmmph. And who's going to look after my goats now that I'm dead? Because my grandson's a feckless wastrel and my granddaughter's no better."

In pure self-defence, he found the energy to manifest his blade and slice open her door. She nodded once, told him to, "Be more sensible," and walked through without a backwards glance. Then he just sat there, listening to the irritated bleating of the goats above and avoiding the eyes of the woman's corpse. He half expected her to stand up and start lecturing him even in the absence of her spirit.

After a time, when he realised that in the hours he'd been sitting there his power had spread its wings over the world, setting dozen of spirits free from their bodies and opening their doors—he could close his eyes and _see_ each one—that maybe he needed to calm down. Maybe it would be all right not to see to each person in the world personally. _About damn time, you young fool_ , the old woman's corpse seemed to say, and his lips twisted in an amused smile.

He hoped the Snake Goddess of the Three Rivers was going to survive the experience.

 

* * *

 

The longer he was Death the more he settled into it. He lost even the faintest twinge of any desire to see to each person, was content to spread his power like a wing over the world, picking and choosing who he'd attend to personally: the children, the brutalised, the people who truly needed him.

As time passed, he lost his name.

He forgot his people and where he'd come from.

He was simply Death. _What_ he was had become _who_ he was. He was implacable, kind, compassionate, gentle, but he was Death. Some feared him, some cursed him, some courted him, some wept at the sight of him and even they didn't know if it was from sorrow or anger or joy.

It didn't matter. He was Death. However they ran—towards him or from him—he was their fate.

He was everyone's fate.


	2. In Death's Shadow

Wars came and wars went, but people never stopped trying to kill each other in great number: greater wars, lesser wars, border skirmishes, territorial battles. Kingdoms rose and countries fell and he sent the dead of both sides to their ever after.

For some he was there in person, others he left to the wings of his power, until a war came like none he'd ever seen.

He walked its battlefields, its trenches, surrounded by its dead and dying that sank into the mud like seeds in a field. There was so much death his skin was humming with power. He could, if he'd wished, have made himself visible to every eye with that power. With that power, he could have reached out and put his hands on every man fighting that war.

They would have seen him, pale and thin, stalking the battlefields, would have felt his touch, his long fingers brushing their skin, and he thought not one of them would have been surprised.

They already knew Death walked beside them.

When it was finally over he was glad to feel the power drain away and he was sure he'd never feel its like again.

And then war once more covered the world.

 

* * *

 

Death pressed his hand over the soldier's heart, fingers sinking into his spirit. His attention had been caught when his power hadn't freed him. He'd come quickly, dropped to his knees beside the dying young man in the soldier's uniform who was fighting him. "Let go," he said softly. Death could rip his spirit free, the man was close enough to dying he had the power to do it, to brutalise him and haul his spirit out of his body, but he wasn't willing to. It was too painful, too traumatising, and he'd suffered enough. "Just let go and it's going to stop hurting."

"Can't. Sarge says I gotta keep fighting, so I gotta keep fighting."

This young man was in _agony_ and he was dying too slowly and Death couldn't lift him free. He was fighting. Fighting too hard.

The Sergeant was leaning over him, hands, arms slicked with blood, telling him to, "Hang on, it's gonna be okay. Just gotta keep fighting, Medic's gonna be here soon," and it was a lie. Death knew it was a lie. The Sergeant knew it was a lie. But the young man dying under Death's hands believed it.

Death made a decision. Just because he had more power than he'd felt since the last war didn't mean he wanted to use it, but he didn't see another way.

He made himself visible.

The Sergeant fumbled for his sidearm, hand slippery with blood, had it pointed at him in seconds. "Sergeant. You have to tell him it's okay to stop fighting." Death's voice was low and gentle, probably shouldn't be audible over the chaos, but he was Death. He would always make himself heard.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"I can't help him because he won't let go. Because you told him to keep fighting. He needs to stop fighting me."

"I repeat: who the fuck are you."

"Sergeant. You know who I am. Please. Let me help him."

Slowly, the gun lowered. "Say it."

"I'm Death." The Sergeant's eyes were wild. "And I swear to you I'll look after him. I'll make sure he's not in pain. But he won't stop fighting me."

"He's not gonna die."

"Sergeant." Death's eyes were kind, his voice was gentle.

After a long moment, he holstered his gun and dropped to his knees. He pushed the young man's hair back off his forehead, leaving blood smeared across his skin, and said, voice steady, "It's okay. You can stop fighting. You can go with him."

"Thank you." Death, humming with power, power enough to be seen, power enough to touch, pressed one hand lightly to the Sergeant's shoulder, making him startle and stare up at him. "I'm sorry."

"Just don't hurt him or I'll come after you."

He nodded and faded out of sight. Reached down and lifted the spirit of the young man free and he sighed with relief as the pain stopped. His body was still alive, but with the spirit gone it would lie there until it finally died. Death settled next to it, the spirit in his arms. He couldn't leave, had to stay by the body, because a spirit could only move so far while the body was still alive, and sometimes the balance shifted, pushing a person back towards life. When that happened, their spirit would be pulled back inside.

That wasn't going to happen here, Death knew.

The spirit stirred. "Am I dead?" he asked quietly, with the calm, detached disinterest common among some of the newly dead and those about to be.

"Soon," he said in reply, voice soft and soothing.

The spirit turned his head, studying the Sergeant, watching as he pulled out a cigarette, hands shaking slightly as he fumbled with a match. "You've got to keep an eye on the Sarge for me."

Death stared down at the young man in his arms. "Do you know who I am?"

"You're Death, which I reckon means you might be the only person who _could_ keep an eye on him."

Death could see the shadows under the Sergeant's eyes, the way his gaze lingered on the face of the man he'd been responsible for. He smiled gently at the spirit. "I'll see what I can do."

 

* * *

 

Death kept his word.

It was easy to keep an eye on the Sergeant, to walk by his side through the war.

Now and then, not entirely sure why, he allowed himself to be seen by the Sergeant. In moments when it seemed he most needed an eye kept on him. Then a few times by others in the regiment that surrounded him, smiling kindly at those whose lives sat in the balance point between life and death.

Like the Sergeant, no one seemed surprised when they saw him. They all knew they walked with Death.

 

* * *

 

Death became a legend among the 107th Infantry Regiment. Maybe among the other regiments, too, but some things you didn't talk about with strangers, some things you kept close to home. Things like having seen Death walking on the battlefield.

Like having seen him walking _beside_ you: short and skinny and blond with blue eyes like the sky.

Like having seen Death smile and it being the kindest, gentlest smile you'd ever seen. Like it being the closest thing you'd found to hope since you'd landed in this hell-pit.

If you were Sergeant James Barnes, you didn't tell anyone Death had appeared and asked you to let one of your men go. That Death had touched your shoulder in comfort and said he was sorry.

You didn't tell anyone that you'd seen him again in glimpses: in foxholes, in ditches, from the backs of ambulances.

You didn't tell anyone that you'd seen him at the asshole end of bad intel that had put your men in the middle of a firefight there was no way out of, and when it was over there were only two of you left alive. Except only you could really be called alive—even though the blood running out of you in a slow steady stream despite everything you'd done to patch it up meant it might not be that way much longer—because McNamara was down with his coiled guts hanging out and all that was facing him was a long, slow painful death.

You didn't tell anyone that you called on Death. That you demanded his attention. That you stared into nothing and growled, "Take him. Take him now. I know you can. I know you're here. If you don't take him he's gonna die slow so please. Just fucking please."

And you sure as shit didn't tell anyone that Death shimmered into existence in front of you, skinny and short, pale and blond, with those blue eyes that saw right into your soul. That you were practically begging when you said, "Please."

"I'm here. I've got him." As Bucky watched, Death leaned over McNamara and ran long slender fingers over his chest, pulling a ghostly double-image free, and then Death sat down on the ground with a pale version of the man curled in his lap. The body on the ground stopped whining and jerking, stopped twitching in pain, and his face smoothed out into peace.

"Thank you." Bucky wanted to weep or scream or laugh, because his men were dead and they'd died because the fucks in Intelligence had screwed them and he'd called Death like a dog and Death had _come_. He settled for saying, "Thank you," again.

Death tilted his head, blond hair falling in a sweep over his disturbingly blue eyes. "You don't have to thank me, Sergeant."

"How come I can still see you? You disappeared last time." Death's eyes seemed to grow deeper, sadder. Bucky felt his heart seize. "Oh."

"Nothing is set in stone. Not yet. But I won't leave you."

Bucky mustered a smile, even if it felt wooden and fake. "If I'm gonna die, at least I'm in good company."

Death's smile was warm and Bucky wanted to move closer, to lean on his shoulder, to...he didn't even know. Something that would definitely get him kicked out of the army. They fell into silence, both watching the not-quite-a-body lying between them, McNamara's spirit a quiet burden in Death's arms, until the distant sound of a vehicle made him tense. Death cocked his head and then he slowly began to fade.

"Not this time?" Bucky asked.

"Not this time," Death replied and Bucky might have been fooling himself, but he thought Death sounded happy about it.

 

* * *

 

Death knew the Sergeant's regiment, the 107th, was getting a reputation. He could hear them talking about him late at night. He could hear other soldiers talking about the 107th, saying that they walked in Death's shadow. It didn't concern him. Everyone knew Death was here, and no one seemed to think it was strange if they saw him. No one who was talking about it seemed to think walking in Death's shadow was a bad thing.

They might think it was strange if they realised he was keeping such a close eye on one man. That man might think it was a bad thing. Death leaned over the Sergeant, who was flat on his back in the middle of the carnage. All around them, Death's power was lifting people free and opening their doors. The Sergeant was at a point of balance and Death found he couldn't keep away. Not now and not at any other time. He didn't know why.

The Sergeant's eyes found his without a trace of fear. "Are you here for me?"

Death waited as the world shifted around them, deciding, then he shook his head. "No," he said, pressing reassuring hands against the Sergeant's shoulder. He was surprised at how much relief he felt.

"Then how come I can see you? How come I can," his eyes darted to Death's hands, but he didn't seem unhappy they were there, "feel you?"

"Because it was close, Sergeant. Close enough the world wasn't sure." The Sergeant didn't need to know that here and now, with the power humming over Death's skin, he could make himself seen and felt whenever he chose.

He didn't react beyond a single nod and a breath Death couldn't swear was shaky. He met Death's eyes and said, "Bucky."

"What?"

"Call me Bucky. You're not one of my men, in fact I'm pretty sure you'd outrank everyone here if it came down to it, so call me Bucky."

"You want me to call you Bucky." He'd met people with a love of death, people who'd raced headlong to meet him. He'd met people terrified, who'd tried to flee right up until the very end. He'd never, not in all these many centuries, met anyone who'd invited Death so casually to call him by name.

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Cause I reckon if we're gonna keep meeting like this?" His smile was all teeth and pain under the brightness. "It seems like you should know my name. Someday soon enough the world's gonna be sure." 

Death squeezed his shoulder, hands going insubstantial as he let himself fade away. "Maybe not, Bucky. Maybe not."

 

* * *

 

Bucky was lying flat, concealed behind some sort of cover. Death wasn't sure what it was, except that it obviously wasn't as concealing as he'd thought. The bullet had grazed his temple. The soldier who'd fired the bullet was dead, already gone through his door, Death's power sending him on his way, Death oddly reluctant to have anything to do with him.

Bucky didn't seem surprised to see Death crouching next to him. "You again," he said.

"Me again," Death agreed with a small smile.

"I'm not calling you Death," Bucky decided. There was a pause in the fighting, everything temporarily quiet, but his eye was still pressed to the scope of his rifle. "Have you got a name?"

"I used to." He did used to have a name, all those centuries ago. What was it?

"Yeah? Think you could tell me what it is?"

"Give me a minute," he murmured, casting his mind back. "Istvan?"

"You don't sound too sure about that."

"I'm not." He wasn't. He'd been Death for so long he'd forgotten his name, had forgotten his family, the people he'd been born to, the people he'd lived with, the people he'd walked out into the snow and died for. It made him pause, as if someone had reached in and stopped the heart that hadn't beaten since that night in the snow.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remember. Seconds later, they sprang open when Bucky's hand brushed his face.

Bucky had turned away from his rifle and was touching his cheek. He stared, wide-eyed, because people, living people, never touched him. Bucky's hand was warm and he gave the tiniest smile before he let it fall. "How do you feel about Steven, then? That's pretty close."

Bucky's words woke something in him, something warm and fluttering that he didn't recognise. "Steven would be fine."

A grin curled the corner of Bucky's mouth as he went back to his rifle. "Steve it is, then."

It surprised a laugh from him. He let himself fade, leaving only the echo of his laughter behind.

 

* * *

 

Steve moved quickly, lifting spirits free and sending them to their ever after.

There were so many dead and dying. It would have been faster to let his power take care of them, and some he did, but most of these men had been Bucky's. He would tend to them personally for Bucky's sake. He was still kind with them, still gentle, but he was working fast, because he needed to get to Bucky. Bucky who'd lived but had been taken, along with the rest who'd survived the massacre.

They understood, these men who'd been Bucky's, and they ran through their doors.

He'd never seen anything like the machines that had torn through Bucky's regiment. Steve was no stranger to the _things_ that people crafted to kill each other. Clubs, knives, guns, they all carried their potential for death—the more death, the greater the potential power—but these. These had been different. Bucky's regiment hadn't lasted long.

When the last of Bucky's men were gone he went looking for Bucky.

He found him a prisoner among other prisoners. They'd been put to work almost immediately constructing machines for HYDRA that were _heavy_ with death, like they were waiting to birth it across the world, but they were too young to give Steve power and the factory was high in the mountains and far from the battlefields. There simply wasn't enough death here to allow Steve to appear. Bucky was hurting but he was alive and the balance of the world hadn't tipped towards his death. Steve was desperately grateful for it, but it meant Bucky couldn't see him. Bucky didn't know he was there.

Steve wondered if Bucky suspected. Wondered if Bucky took comfort from wondering if Steve, if _Death,_ was here beside him, or if Death's presence in this place would be a horror added onto the other horrors. Horrors like the beatings meted out to anyone who got too defiant. Who got too weak. Who got too useless.  

Bucky crouched over the young man who'd been kicked too many times, whose ribs had cracked and splintered and punctured the fragile lungs, who was lying on his back slowly drowning hundreds of miles from the sea. Bucky had settled him on a pallet made up of what they could scrounge, tucked away in the back corner of the cell. The other men made a living, oh-so-casual wall between the guards outside and the dying young man.

His eyes were focused on Steve. Steve smoothed a hand over his forehead, soothing him, and said, "Could you tell the Sergeant that I'm here, that I'm, that Steve's watching out for him?" It was unforgiveable to ask the dying to speak for him, but he didn't know what else to do. The shadows in Bucky's eyes got deeper, got darker, every day and there was nothing left in them that looked like hope, no matter how good a front he put on for his men.

The young man wheezed it out and Bucky's eyes narrowed, but he nodded, and said, "Steve'll look after you. You can trust him. You'll be safe if you let go." Steve pushed his hand through the man's chest and lifted his spirit free, held him close as the body wheezed once more and again, then shuddered and went still. Bucky stiffened and his eyes darted from side to side, like he'd somehow be able to see Steve.

"What happens now?" the spirit asked.

"Now you get to go to your ever after," Steve told him.

"Are you friends with the Sarge?"

"I guess I am." He was surprised when the spirit started laughing, genuine, belly-deep laughter. "Why are you laughing?" he asked curiously.

The spirit was laughing so hard he had to lean on Steve for support. "Sarge is the toughest guy I ever met," he finally said. "Doesn't even surprise me that he'd be friends with Death."

Steve couldn't help chuckling. "Want to know a secret?"

"From Death? I'm not going to say no to that!"

"He's the one who named me Steve."

The spirit snorted with laughter and slapped his knee. "That's a good one. You will keep an eye on him, right?"

"I'll do my best."

"Okay, then." He straightened to stand tall on his own feet, a shimmery reflection of who he'd been. "I guess I'm ready to go."

Steve moved his hand just so and a gleaming blade of light appeared. A twist of his wrist and he carved a door in the world. Through it, he could glimpse green fields and a perfect blue sky. The young man saluted Bucky, considered Steve then saluted him too, and stepped through the door as Steve politely averted his eyes. It sealed itself behind him. Steve twisted his hand and the blade disappeared.

Bucky was crouched on the floor next to the body.  A man with a huge moustache awkwardly patted his back, then walked off as far as he could in the narrow cell. Trying to give him space, Steve guessed. Bucky bowed his head and Steve heard him say, "Next time you use one of my dying men to pass me a message, you and me, we're gonna have words." Steve winced, because he'd known it had been wrong. Then Bucky sighed and slumped forward, shoulders folding in on themselves. "But I'm glad you're here." He shook his head. "I'm so fucking glad you're here."

Steve stepped closer to press his hand against Bucky's shoulder even though he knew Bucky couldn’t feel it. Said, "I'm going to stay with you," even though he knew Bucky couldn't hear it.

Bucky twitched a little and let out another long sigh, then shook himself and stood, pulling the skin of Sergeant Barnes around himself like a coat as he softly called to the other men in the cell.

All Steve could do was watch.

 

* * *

 

Steve took four more of Bucky's men and then he crouched next to Bucky's pallet as Bucky's eyes went wide and he clasped Steve's arm. His grip was weak and Steve covered his hand with his own. "This is a problem," Bucky said. "Because I really can't be glad to see you."

"No, me neither." Bucky was still in the tipping point. Still in the balance. But he was sick. He had a fever. "But nothing's carved in stone." He was alone in the cell, left behind when the rest of them were sent off to work.

"You're still here."

"I told you I wouldn't leave you."

Bucky let go, pulled back his hand, and punched him. It was weak and Steve caught his fist and gently eased it down to rest on Bucky's chest. "That's for using one of my men."

"I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't have. But he was very impressed that you were friends with Death. Laughed like it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard." Steve tried a smile and felt like it didn't quite work. Bucky didn't seem to notice. "He told me to keep an eye on you."

"You were going to anyway."

"I was."

"I'm going to die here, aren't I?" Bucky sounded calm, like he'd resigned himself to it.

"Maybe not."

The look Bucky gave him was half-pitying, half, Steve wasn't sure how to describe it. "I don't think Death's allowed to bullshit people about whether or not they're gonna die."

"I'm not. I honestly don't know. It's not decided. It could go either way."

Bucky nodded. "I'm not sure whether to be glad or not. Hope is a bitch of a thing, Steve."

The cell door banged open and black-clad guards marched in, accompanied by a man, not much taller than Steve, round-faced and wearing round glasses. "Yes, good. He's obviously hallucinating. You can report that, report that he was useless for the workforce so I'm not endangering anything by taking him. Now, pick him up and bring him."

"You're not taking me anywhere, pal," Bucky snarled, dragging himself to his feet, but the four guards easily overpowered him. Steve wanted to stop them, was struck with a sudden, hot, vicious desire to reach out and tear their spirits from their bodies to stop them from putting their hands on Bucky, and it drove him to a shocked stop. He couldn't do it, it wasn't in his power, but that he wanted to. It shocked him. He shook his head and hurried after them, following the sounds of Bucky's ever more frantic yells and the occasional muffled curse from a guard as Bucky got in a shot.

They ended with Bucky strapped to a table in a deep, dark corner of the factory. The man with the glasses tested the bonds thoroughly, then had the largest of the guards test them. He obviously had no intention of allowing Bucky to escape.

There was something about the way the man watched Bucky, the way he looked at him, that disturbed Steve. He was Death. He'd seen so many people who'd died brutally and he'd seen the people who'd killed them. Those people...the look in their eyes was the same look Steve was seeing behind those round glasses.

A look that said Bucky was a thing.

Was there to be used.

There was nothing Steve could do.

"My name, Sergeant Barnes, is Dr Zola, and you and I are going to do something extraordinary. You are going to help me help HYDRA to reshape the world."

"Steve?"

Dr Zola hesitated, glancing around, and Steve moved to Bucky's side. The world still hadn't decided if he was going to live or die. Bucky could still see him. "I'm here, Bucky. You're not alone." Bucky's whole body strained against the bonds, like he was trying to reach for him, and Steve ran his hands down Bucky's face, down his chest, pressed his forehead into the hollow of Bucky's neck, felt Bucky's chin press into his hair. "I'm here."

"Just don't fucking leave me alone with this crazy asshole."

"Never, Bucky."

"Your fever must be quite high, Sergeant Barnes. I'm going to give you something to bring it down. It won't do to have hallucinations interfering with my work."

Bucky grunted as the needle went in but he didn't react. Steve shifted so he was cradling Bucky's head against his forearm. Bucky's eyes were locked onto his. They both pretended the doctor didn't exist as he fussed and pottered and waited and time ticked past.

"There. Now, for the real test." As the doctor wheeled machines over to the table, as he loaded liquid into needles, as he explained to Bucky that his work was going to change the world, Steve felt the balance of the world shift. Not towards death. Towards life.

"Bucky." Steve squeezed his hands as hard as he could. "I'm not a hallucination. I've never been a hallucination. And I will still be right here."

"I know that. What do you think I am, stupid?" Steve didn't know what it cost him to force that light note into his voice, because his eyes were wild and afraid, were begging him not to go.

"I'm sorry," he managed to get out and then he was gone from Bucky's sight. He was still there, though. Still there to watch as the doctor injected Bucky and Bucky screamed, screamed until he was hoarse with it. Still there to watch as the doctor asked Bucky question after question about how it _felt_. As he _hurt_ Bucky, over and over, carefully observing his reactions.

Still there to watch as Bucky, shaking and terrified and in agony, devolved into name, rank, and serial number, over and over again until finally, _finally,_ he was rescued.

He sat with Bucky in the ambulance, listening to two nurses gossiping about how lucky it was that morale was so low, how the Brass was looking for something, anything to boost it, or a rescue never would have been authorised.

 

* * *

 

Bucky was offered a discharge. He refused, laughed it off, said plenty of men had been through worse and he'd be letting down every one of them who'd died at Azzano if he crawled home with his tail between his legs.

But he was reckless. He'd never been cautious, never been one to creep and play it safe, to let others take risks while he hid behind them and preserved his own skin. But this. This was like nothing Steve had seen from him. And still, with all the risks, all the volunteering for every dangerous thing that came his way, all the _injuries,_ the balance didn't tip towards his death.

He barely slept. At night, Bucky would lie awake, eyes wide, staring at the sky. Steve would sit next to him, silent and watchful. Depending on where they were, Bucky might be able to see him: if they were close enough to major fighting, close enough to enough death to give Steve the power to appear, Steve would lean over him, one hand on his chest, and block his view of the night sky. Bucky's gaze wouldn't shift but it would soften. Eventually, his eyes would close and his breathing would slow and he'd sleep. Steve would keep his hand on Bucky's chest and Bucky wouldn't stir until it was time for him to wake.

Some nights, when he couldn’t see Steve, Bucky would sneak away, find somewhere close to private, wrap a blanket around his shoulders and curl into a ball on the ground. Only then would he sleep, fitful and restless and shaking awake with nightmares. 

One night, after another three days of watching Bucky on patrol, risky and reckless, never endangering anyone else, only himself, Steve leaned over him, flattened one hand on his chest, and said, "You need to stop."

Bucky stared up at him, flat on his back, hands folded at his waist, eyes strangely empty. "Not sure what you're talking about there, Steve," he said, voice pitched low, barely above a whisper, not enough to wake anyone.

"Stop with the recklessness. Are you trying to die?" Bucky barely reacted, a tiny flinch under his hand, and he knew. "You are."

"I'm not trying to die," he muttered. "Just not caring too much if it happens."

"You have to stop." Steve's fingers curled. "Bucky."

"You don't understand."

"Then tell me. Explain it to me."

Steve didn't think Bucky was going to answer. He looked away, rolled over and put his back to Steve. Finally he said, "Not here," and stood up. Steve followed him as he made his way towards the latrines, veering off into a clear space between a couple of trees. He sank down on his haunches and Steve sat next to him.

For a long time, he didn't speak. Steve didn't push him, sat silent by his side while behind his eyes people died and found their ever afters as his power spread itself like a wing over the world.

"That doctor," he began, then stopped. Steve knew who he was talking about, knew _what_ he was talking about, and hatred flashed through him like a burning brand. "I think." He stopped again, let out an ugly, bitter laugh. "Never mind."

"Bucky." He said it softly, but Bucky still flinched.

Finally, staring into nothing, he said, "All that stuff he did, it wasn't natural." Bucky scratched at his arms, dug at them, hard enough to leave marks, hard enough he would have drawn blood if Steve hadn't reached over and caught his hands. Bucky wouldn't meet his eyes, but Steve could see anguish painted on his face before it smoothed over. "It did something to me. Made me _wrong_."

Steve didn't know how to answer that. There was no reassurance he could offer, no words of comfort that would make Bucky feel better. Bucky thought he'd been changed, that that doctor had made him into something _wrong_. Steve looked down at his own hands, wrapped around Bucky's, and his eyes narrowed.

Slowly, he rose to his feet and stood over Bucky. "You named me," he said, voice low. "You are my friend. But don't ever forget what I am." Calling his power, he let it settle over him like a mantle. "I am Death." He caught Bucky's chin, wrapped slender fingers around his jaw. "You are mine." Bucky's pulse raced under his touch. Steve leaned forward. "You are not _wrong_. When you die, I will take you because you are as human as you ever were." He squeezed, not to hurt, but his grip was like steel. "Do you understand?"

"Yes." It was barely above a whisper.

"Do you believe me?"

"Yes." Bucky's eyes were huge, his pupils blown wide.

"You are _not_ wrong."

Steve could feel him trembling, then with a strangled cry, Bucky shoved himself forward and buried his face in Steve's stomach, arms clutching Steve's hips. Steve wrapped an arm around Bucky's shoulders and gently stroked his hair. "I've got you, Bucky," he said softly. "It's okay." Bucky clung to him and Steve held him and gradually he felt the tension bleed out of Bucky, felt the fine tremors stop.

Eventually, Bucky let out a long, shuddering sigh as he sat back on his heels and rubbed his face. He looked calmer. "You promise you'll take me when I die?"

"Of course I will." Steve crouched in front of him, smiling gently. "But I'd like that to be as long a wait as possible, so stop being such a, a—"

"Jerk?" Bucky suggested, the corner of his mouth pulling up in the ghost of a smirk. "Punk?"

"Those'll do nicely," Steve said. "I was there with you. I will be _here_ with you, even if you can't see me. I'm not going to leave you. But I need you to promise me you'll stop being so careless with your life. Please."

"All right, Steve. I'll try."

"Thank you."

Steve followed Bucky back to his bedroll and when Bucky lay down, sat next to him. Bucky curled himself around Steve, forehead pressed against his thigh, and closed his eyes.

 

* * *

 

HYDRA was a threat that couldn't be dealt with by conventional methods, so those in charge devised an unconventional one: the Howling Commandos—an elite and somewhat eccentric unit whose job was to hunt HYDRA down.

Bucky's recklessness had brought him to their attention. They wanted him.

Their CO knew what he was about, offering Bucky his chance for revenge on the people who'd tortured him and slaughtered his men. The surviving members of the 107th who'd been with Bucky at Azzano were already part of the team.

Bucky accepted, sending Steve a silent apology. But this wasn't recklessness, this was war. This was vengeance.

This was the army and he was pretty sure _asking_ him was only a damn technicality anyway.

He knew Steve was with him. Steve had promised he'd stay with him, even if Bucky couldn't see him, and Bucky had nothing in him that could doubt Steve, not with _You're mine_ ringing in his memory. When he added a grim reaper patch to the left shoulder of his blue jacket, he got a few strange looks. But apparently the rumours about the 107th had gotten around, the rumours that no one talked about, the rumours that Death walked beside them, up close and personal.

When they asked him, late one night, if _he'd_ ever seen Death, he paused. Everyone was awake because it was too fucking cold to go to sleep and all they could do was huddle together around the fire. They definitely shouldn't have been drinking, but he was their Sergeant and he knew that sometimes _that_ was also all you could do.

"Yeah, I've seen him." He'd expected his words to be met with disbelief, maybe laughter, but there was only expectant silence. He had to bow his head to hide a smile because he knew, he _knew,_ Steve would be listening, was probably right behind him, Death leaning on his back so he could hear the story better. 

Falsworth elbowed him hard and passed him the bottle. Bucky took a swig and wished he could still feel the slow burn, but whatever that doctor had done to him, booze didn't affect him anymore. "I called him. One of my boys was gonna die hard, there was no saving him, and so I called him. Told him to get his bony ass," he could almost hear Steve's huff of outrage, "in gear and do his job and he appeared. Right in front of me. I saw Death pull his spirit right out of his body, stop his pain, stop his suffering, and then he stayed." Bucky's voice softened, almost without him noticing. "He stayed with me until my people showed up." They didn't need to know it was because Bucky could have died. Bucky knew he'd have stayed anyway.

There was a very long moment in which no one spoke. "You know that sounds like utter horseshit," Falsworth finally said, respectful tone at odds with his words.

Bucky took another swig of the bottle and passed it on, briefly making eye contact with Dugan. He'd been 107th. He knew. "Probably does."

"Why you?"

"Damned if I know," Bucky replied. "Damned if I know."

 

* * *

 

When the chance to catch Doctor Zola presented itself it was too good to pass up, even if it meant plummeting onto a moving train. The other Commandos expected Bucky to be like a hunting dog set loose on a rabbit, his chance for personal vengeance finally here, but Steve could see the fear in his eyes.

Steve knew it wasn't fear of the train.

It wasn't fear of the fight.

He was afraid of Zola.

He covered it, shrugged Sergeant Barnes on like a suit over his fear and wore a half-feral smile pulled back over sharp white teeth. Laughed and joked and threw himself forward into empty space.

It wasn't just Doctor Zola on the train. It was carrying the younger siblings of HYDRA's machines, shells wrapped around a person making each one more dangerous than it would be alone. Not enough to give Steve the power to become visible, just enough to make him afraid for Bucky.

But he realised as he watched them, Bucky and his men, that maybe he'd been worried for nothing. They were fast, they were deadly, they were brutal, and Steve rolled his power over the train as it sped through the mountains. It was dangerous, the level to which he'd grown attached, because the thought of seeing personally to the men trying to kill Bucky and _his_ men was abhorrent. Still he made sure they were lifted quickly free, that their spirits didn't linger in injured bodies, that their doors were opened so they could go through to their ever afters. He just left it to his power and turned his mind away from them.

Bucky was looking pleased, clapping one of his men on the back, when suddenly he looked up, eyes wide, and Steve knew Bucky could see him. Steve felt the balance shift, felt it spell Bucky's death as one of the machines smashed into the train car, would have turned Bucky's man into red mist, except Bucky was moving, was smashing into it, knocking it flying.

The force of his rebound sent him ricocheting out the side of the car. He grabbed, snatched, clung to a railing, feet dangling over the snowy abyss of the ravine, but it broke and Bucky fell, tumbling away into the blinding white.

Steve leapt after him, untouched by the wind, by the cold—the world couldn't touch him, but it could touch Bucky and it was singing the song of his death. Steve had to get to him before he could suffer.

He found Bucky lying in the snow. Still breathing, his left arm a torn and bloody stump, breaths coming in short pained gasps, eyes wide and staring, but they focused on him. He saw Steve. Steve dropped to his knees and ran his hand over Bucky's heart. Sank his fingers _through_ him and gently tugged. Met resistance. "Please, please let go. Bucky. Let go." Steve didn't understand why he wasn't dead. A fall like that should have killed him, he should be dead, but Steve could feel the life in his veins, feel it pulsing through him. It wouldn't stop him from lifting him free and holding him safely until his body finally died, so he didn't have to lie here in agony.

If Bucky would let him. Why was Bucky fighting him? "Bucky, please. Don't make me watch you die like this."

Slowly, Bucky's eyes slipped shut and the resistance against Steve's fingers disappeared. Gently, carefully, steeped in sorrow, Steve pulled Bucky's spirit free. He came slowly, reluctantly, like even now he couldn't stop fighting. Finally, he was kneeling in the snow next to Steve. Steve knew there were tears running down his face and he couldn't stop them.

Bucky held out his hands and studied them, glanced back at his body. "I get the whole package?" he asked. "Because there seems to be some bits missing from my body."

"Yeah." Steve wiped at his eyes. "Yeah, it's how you are inside. Not, not what you look like when you die."

Bucky turned away from his body to look at Steve and his eyes softened. "Steve. Hey, Steve. Don't cry."

"Sorry." He wiped at his eyes again.

"You must be a mess if you start crying every time someone dies."

"First time it's ever happened."

"Steve." Bucky reached out and pulled him into a hug. Steve wrapped his arms around Bucky as tight as he could and Bucky pressed his face into Steve's shoulder. "You know, after everything I really thought I was gonna make it."

"Me too." Steve rubbed his cheek against Bucky's hair.

"Can you tell me, are the rest of the Commandos okay?"

Steve reached out with his power, tested the balance. "They're all fine."

"Okay then," Bucky said on a sigh. "What happens now?"

"We have to wait here until you die. Then I can open the door to your ever after."

Bucky turned his head, settling himself more comfortably, and Steve could feel Bucky's nose brushing his neck. "Do you know what's on the other side?"

Steve shook his head. "Mostly everyone's different. I try not to look, but I get glimpses. It's all about what you believe." Bucky still hadn't let go, seemed content to let Steve keep holding onto him, so Steve summoned up his courage and said, "There could be another option. If you wanted. But if you didn't, it's not, I'll still open your door." Bucky made an encouraging, questioning noise and Steve said, "You could stay with me."

There was a long moment of stillness then Bucky lifted his head. "Stay with you."

"If you wanted?"

Bucky gave him a searching look, his eyes a deep point of colour in his pale face. Finally, he said, "If I'm out of line, you'll tell me, right?"

"Yes?" Steve wasn't sure what Bucky meant, but he was willing to go along with it.

"Okay, here goes nothing," Bucky said under his breath, then brought one hand up to hold Steve's chin. It felt so nice, Bucky's hand on his face, then Bucky leaned in and kissed him, lips moving gently against his, and it felt so much better than nice. Steve thought it was a good thing he didn't breathe and his heart didn't beat, because otherwise he might have stopped doing both of those things.

When Bucky lifted his head, Steve stared, mouth hanging slightly open, eyes wide, and Bucky's mouth flattened, his eyes went opaque. "Right, misread that. Well, at least I'm dead, no one can blue ticket me. Sorry, won't do it again." He started to pull back and Steve, feeling a little confused and a little desperate to do it again, pulled himself closer and pressed his mouth against Bucky's in an ungraceful attempt to recreate it. His nose banged into Bucky's and their lips mashed together, but then Bucky caught his face between his hands, tilted it slightly, and it was perfect. Steve pressed into the kiss with a sigh of contentment and he felt Bucky smiling. "Or not," Bucky said when he eventually leaned back. "Hey there."

"Hi," Steve said, feeling a little shy.

"What was the," Bucky made a startled face at him, "in aid of?"

"No one's ever kissed me before."

Bucky nodded thoughtfully. "I guess people don't go around kissing Death."

"No, I mean at all. I was human before I was Death. It was a long time ago, and I know I was a bit shaky on my name, but I'm pretty sure I would have remembered that."

"Steve, that is a damn tragedy." Bucky smoothed his hand over Steve's hair. "What would staying with you mean?"

"Just staying with me. We could go wherever you wanted. See whatever you wanted. You could still go on to your ever after whenever you were ready. The only thing is you can't interact with the world and you can't touch anyone."

"I can touch you, though, right?"

"Yes, you can touch me."

"That sounds like it would suit me just fine, then." Bucky ran his thumb over Steve's bottom lip and Steve blushed. Bucky looked delighted and said, "I made Death blush."

"Shut up," Steve said, fighting a smile.

"No, I just made Death blush." Steve shoved him and Bucky shoved him back. "I'll stay with you."  

"Really?"

"Steve. I just kissed you, which I've been wanting to do for way too long now, and you're telling me I can stay with you. This is definitely a bad news good news kind of day." His gaze drifted over his body, bleeding in the snow, and his face fell.

Steve gathered him close. "Hey. I've got you."

"You've got me," he repeated like a mantra. "I'm dead, or I will be soon, but it's okay. You've got me."

"Yeah, Bucky." Steve pressed a kiss to his forehead and Bucky managed a tiny smile. "I've got you. I'm not going to let you go."

The snow fell through them, dusting Bucky's still breathing body in a fine white layer. Steve didn't understand why it was still alive. The bleeding from the torn stump of the left arm was slowing and it seemed to be breathing _better_. He was getting an uneasy feeling but the balance of the world hadn't shifted. It was still singing Bucky's death. Bucky was curled into his arms, tucked awkwardly to fit, but he seemed content to wait there, eyes averted from his body.

Neither of them saw the soldiers until they were _right there_.

When the soldiers' hands closed on Bucky's ankles Bucky was ripped out of his arms and slammed back into his body as the balance of world _shifted_ into Bucky's life.

Steve cried out at them to stop, curled his hands into fists and wished for the ability to tear them to pieces, but he couldn't.

All he could do was follow as they hauled Bucky away through the snow.


	3. Under Death's Wing

Agony. He was in agony. The cold was eating into his bones and his left shoulder was on fire. The sky was rolling past and it was the colour of Steve's eyes. He was supposed to be with Steve. He'd _been_ with Steve. He'd kissed Steve. That had been real. He'd been safe. He'd been with him. He'd been going to stay with him forever and now he was in his body again.

He wasn't supposed to be in his body. He was supposed to be with Steve.

When they tried to patch him up, he fought. He fought with the desperation of a cornered, feral beast and he killed two of them before they got him down. He kept fighting until they beat him to the ground, until he was fading into blackness, and he whispered to the dying man whose splintered nose he'd driven into his brain, "Tell Steve I'm sorry. I'm sorry. You have to tell him."

When he came to his stump was wrapped, but it was still burning agony. It was cold, so cold he was shivering. He was in total darkness. He huddled in the corner of the blackness trying to remember how Steve had felt. How Steve had held him, how Steve had kissed him. The colour of his eyes. "I wanted to stay with you." He knew Steve was there. He knew Steve would hear him. "Hopefully it won't be too much longer."

They kept him in the dark, in the cold. They barely fed him and never when he expected. He lost all sense of time. He lost all sense of space. But he held on because he knew he wasn't alone. He knew Steve was there with him. This had to end eventually and Steve _would be there_. He was Steve's. Steve would take him and they'd be together.

Sudden light blinded him. A man was silhouetted in the doorway: short, round, a gleam of silver reflecting off his glasses.

"Hello, Sergeant Barnes. I'm so glad to see you again."

 

* * *

 

"I'm here, Bucky."

"I'm with you, Bucky."

"I won't leave you."

No matter what he said, Bucky couldn’t hear him. No matter how he curled around him, Bucky couldn't feel it. But Bucky still knew he was there.

He still knew.

Steve's heart might not beat but it could ache that Bucky had that much faith. It might not beat, but it could fill with fear and he didn't know if he was afraid that Bucky would die...or if he was afraid that Bucky wouldn't.

When they gave Bucky to Doctor Zola, he thought it might have been better if Bucky had died in that cell.

 

* * *

 

They cut off what remained of Bucky's left arm, ripping through bone and flesh and withered veins, cut it off while he was _awake_. Zola stood by, observing, taking careful notes.

Bucky's screams drove through Steve like knives and he tried, _he tried,_ to reach into the man with the saw and tear his spirit from his body. But there was no shifting balance of the world pushing the man's life into death. It didn't work. Steve was helpless to stop them.

They implanted a metal arm, drove it into Bucky's body, into his bones and nerves, a little machine that sang death which became _part_ of Bucky. When they activated it, Bucky, his beautiful Bucky who would always fight, turned it against them, crushed the throat of the man who was hurting him, and the balance _shifted._

The man dropped to the floor, gasping for breath.

Eyes cold, Steve stood over him. The man stared up at him in agony. Steve smiled, showing all his teeth. "Does it hurt?"

The man whimpered, unable to speak past the ruin Bucky had made of his throat.

"Good."

He gestured desperately, asking, _begging_ to be set free.

"No."

His mouth shaped the word: _why?_

Steve crouched next to the dying man. "Because you hurt him. You hurt him so now it's your turn."

It took the man a long time to die. Steve watched impassively as they tried to save him. They were wasting their time. When he was finally dead, when his heart was still and his breath was stopped, Steve dragged his spirit free.

"I wish I could leave you in there," Steve said, summoning his knife and cutting a door into the spirit's ever after. "Let your body rot around you. But I'm Death. My job is to send you on. So that's what I'll do."

The spirit turned fearful eyes on him and said nothing, just hurried through the door which snapped shut behind him.

 

* * *

 

It was Zola who brought the chair.

It was Zola who taught Steve rage.

But it was Zola who gave Steve back to Bucky.

Steve didn't figure out why until later, until Bucky was huddled in the corner of the cold, dark cell, twitching uncontrollably with aftershocks his body didn't yet know how to process. Steve pressed against him, both his hands wound tight around Bucky's right one because Bucky wouldn't let him touch the metal hand.

Bucky could see him because the chair was supposed to kill _Bucky._ Not his body but the man himself, everything that made him Bucky: wipe his memories clean and leave a blank slate.

Death was death and when the balance shifted towards death Steve could be seen. Steve could touch.

Steve pulled Bucky closer and Bucky burrowed into him, shaking and shivering, as Steve pressed his cheek against his hair. Slowly, the balance shifted towards life. Despite what Zola had done to him, _Bucky_ was going to survive. Steve faded from Bucky's sight. Faded from Bucky's touch. The near-animal whimper that followed tore a wound in Steve he didn't think would ever heal.

 

* * *

 

They built the Soldier on the bones of Bucky, built him with blood and pain and torture, and all Steve could do was watch.

Watch and remember everyone who touched him.

But the Soldier's first victim was always Bucky and in the ten slow words before his death Bucky could _see him_. Steve could touch him. As the words counted down, Steve would clasp Bucky's face between his hands, holding him tight, whispering his name, and Bucky's eyes would lock onto his like they were salvation.

In those few moments they were together.

 

* * *

 

Steve couldn't save him. Steve couldn't stop anything they did to him. He tried. Over and over again he tried to tear spirits from living bodies. Over and over again he failed.

All he could do was watch. Watch and remember and mark every face. Everyone who touched him. Everyone who hurt him.

They would all be his, sooner or later. The nature of HYDRA meant it was almost always sooner.

There was no compassion. There was no mercy. Steve left them in their broken, bloody bodies until they gave up, until they shuddered out one last dying breath. Stood over them so they could see him, so they knew he was watching them. That he was there. That he _chose_ to leave them like that.

Some called for help, some wept in pain and agony. Some prayed and some cursed and every single one asked why.

Every single one he answered: "Because of what you did to him."

He still opened their doors. He was Death and it was his job. He would always do his job.

Gradually he learned that he didn't have to pull them free. A spirit trapped in what had once been living flesh and was now nothing but meat could be sufficiently motivated to haul _itself_ free, struggling and terrified, and drag itself through the door.

Death could be kindness and compassion and comfort.

Not for them.

Never for them. 

 

* * *

 

The mercy he withheld from those who'd hurt Bucky he gave instead to the Soldier's victims. He did it for Bucky. He knew what it would do to Bucky to know he'd been used to kill.

Those who were marked to die at the Soldier's hands never felt their death. Steve lifted them free in the instant it took hold: the moment the bullet touched them, or the knife, or the Soldier himself.

Sometimes it left them bewildered, a confused spirit looking down at their own falling body, but they felt no pain, no fear. No matter how hard it was now, he found gentleness for them, whoever they were, because he knew Bucky would want it that way.

Before he opened their doors, he tried to make them understand that the man who'd killed them was as much a victim as they were. Tried to make them understand what had been done to Bucky, that he'd had no choice. Most didn't care, they only cared that they were dead. Some were sorry for him. And some few forgave him.

Steve hoarded those gifts of forgiveness against the chance he might someday be able to give them to Bucky.

 

* * *

 

The Soldier shot a man _through_ a red-haired woman and Steve lifted the man free before he could feel the bullet. "Tell her it's okay," the man begged, not seeming to care that he was dead. "Please. She tried so hard to save me." Steve looked at him, looked at the woman, bleeding hard, and the balance of her life was _just_ close enough he could do it. "Please," the man asked again, tugging at Steve's arm, and Steve shimmered into sight to find himself looking down the barrel of a gun.

"He asked me to tell you that it's not your fault," Steve told her. "He knows how hard you tried."

She cocked her head. "Who are you?"

He simply looked at her. "You know who I am."

She nodded. "Am I going to die?"

"Probably not," he said, then hesitated. "The man who shot both of you. He's not who you think he is. He didn't want to do it. They took him, remade him into the Soldier. He's a victim, too." Startled, she lowered her gun slightly, then it snapped back, as if she thought she could shoot Death if she had to, and he managed a brief smile. "And you're not going to die," he added as he disappeared, her balance shifting around him.

The man hugged him and thanked him and listened when Steve explained about Bucky and the Soldier. He forgave Bucky, promised to ask his god to intercede, and Steve sent him through his door.

 

* * *

 

HYDRA thought he was only the Soldier or the Asset or It.

They didn't know about Bucky.

They didn't know Bucky was haunting their Soldier, their Asset, their It.

Bucky was supposed to be dead, but they'd brought him along when they'd found the body in the snow. Over and over again, they'd tried to kill Bucky but Death kept bringing him back. Death helped him be Bucky. Death helped him remember: remember that his name was Bucky, remember that Death's name was Steve.

Bucky cautiously lifted his head. They were going to turn the chair on soon. Very soon. The chair was terror and hate and pain, but it meant Steve would come.

No.

The chair meant he'd see him. Steve was _always_ there. Steve was always with him.

One of the technicians shoved him and he obediently moved further back into the chair. There. Steve appeared, standing behind the technician's shoulder. If the technician could see Steve's eyes he'd be afraid. He'd be so afraid. _Bucky_ wasn't afraid; the look wasn't for him.

Steve slowly ran his hand over Bucky's hair. Steve's fingers were so gentle as he stroked Bucky's cheek. He'd learned not to move, not to give any sign Steve was there, but inside he wanted to sigh, wanted to push into his hand. He kept his gaze straight ahead, locked onto Steve's eyes, as Steve said his name, said _Bucky_ , then leaned over to softly kiss his forehead.

He knew he'd only be _Bucky_ for a little bit longer. Not much time to see Steve. Not much time for Steve to touch him.

However long he got, it was worth them turning on the chair.

 

* * *

 

"What's he looking at?" one of the techs working on the chair asked.

"Nothing, it doesn't matter." Another tech adjusted the chair's settings. "Who cares?" she asked.

"No. He's always staring off in the same direction. Like he's trying to freak us out."

She turned an unimpressed look on the first tech. "Do you also think your dog's trying to punish you when he rips up the paper? He's not trying to freak you out. He's not _capable_ of trying to freak you out. Just do your job, will you?"

"No, I want to know." The first tech stepped closer. "Hey." The Asset's eyes didn't move, didn't shift from the spot he was staring at. "Hey!" He slapped him hard across the face. No reaction. "I'm talking to you." A harder slap, enough to make his head jerk back to the sharp clack of teeth smacking together. "What are you looking at?"

Incredibly slowly, the Asset's eyes focused on him. The first tech suddenly wished they hadn't. "Death."

"What?"

"Death." The Asset's mouth moved in something that wasn't a smile, could never be a smile, was nothing more than bloodless lips pulled back to show teeth. "He's waiting for you."

 

* * *

 

The balance of the world shifted around Arnim Zola and sang his death. His slow death, from sickness, from disease. Steve was filled with a fierce joy. More than anyone, Steve hated Zola. He was responsible for all of this. For all of Bucky's suffering. All of what had been done to him.

After Bucky being free, Steve wanted Zola to die more than he wanted anything in this world.

He watched, puzzled at first, then angry, as Zola began to design a way to cheat death. He was a clever man. An evil, clever man. His fear of death and his fear of what came after were driving him as he devised a way to trade his dying, diseased flesh for a machine and make himself immortal to carry on HYDRA's work forever.

It might have worked. Might have, if Death hadn't been looking over his shoulder. Might have, if Death hadn't been waiting for just the right moment.

Might have, if Death hadn't hated him, deeply and personally.

The moment his spirit left his body, heading for the machine, Steve snatched him up, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, and shook him like a terrier with a rat. Screaming in terror, Zola tried to fight free, but Steve held him tight.

His body was dead, had died the moment Zola left it, and he was Steve's.

"You must let me go," Zola demanded. "I've only got a short time to enter the machine or this will fail."

Vicious satisfaction filled Steve's heart. "You've already failed."

"No. No, I cannot. I must not. You don't understand. My future, HYDRA's future, it rests on this. I must go into the machine. All of our plans will be undone if I don't!"

"Yes." Steve flung him to the ground and bared his teeth. "I've been waiting for you."

Zola scrambled to his feet and threw himself towards the machine, but Steve slid between them and he bounced off, landing on his back. "Who are you?"

"Death." Steve stalked forward and stomped his foot down hard on Zola's neck. A spirit didn't breathe, blood didn't flow, but habits of a lifetime died hard. Zola scrabbled at Steve's leg. "Sergeant James Barnes." Zola froze. "You stole him from me. You stole him from _himself_." 

"No, no what I was doing was important work. It was—"

"Shut up," Steve ground out and called his blade. He wondered, briefly, if it would work on a spirit, then he shook himself and sliced open Zola's door. A dark and roiling red void lay beyond and he didn't look away. Silence stretched out from it like reaching hands and Zola went ashen grey. "Go."

Zola tried to fight, but Steve shoved him through. It felt like he had help, as if the silence was a physical presence, twisting itself around Zola to drag him in.

As he crossed the threshold, Zola vanished from sight.

Steve jammed his blade into the door, holding it open, and felt the silence listening. "He hurt the man I love," he said quietly into the void, "hurt him so bad I don't know if he'll ever come back, if he'll ever be himself again, and they're still hurting him. I can't get him away. He," Steve felt tears coming and he angrily swiped at his eyes with the hand not holding the knife, "he tried to unmake him and that's worse than killing. I just wanted you to know that." He pulled the knife free and as the door very gently slid closed he thought he could hear a shrill, terrified keening.

His gaze fell on Zola's body and his eyes narrowed. With a last swipe at his cheeks he vanished, heading back to Bucky.

 

* * *

 

Bucky was passed from handler to handler, all with their own brutal way of managing HYDRA's Asset. When they gave Bucky to Alexander Pierce, whose charnel house stink coloured the air around him, he took a new approach.

Pierce tried to woo the Asset, tried to manipulate him into believing in HYDRA, into believing in Pierce. Tried to make the Soldier depend on him, to follow him, to do what Pierce ordered not because he _had_ to, but because he _wanted_ to.

Except he didn't understand what he was doing.

Pierce thought he was dealing only with the Soldier, the Asset, the weapon HYDRA had made of him. He didn't know Bucky was still alive inside the Soldier's shell.

It didn't work, but only just. If Steve hadn't been there, Steve thought Pierce might have had him.

When Pierce failed to make the Asset imprint on him like a baby bird, he turned cold. He sent the Soldier out, over and over again. Had him wiped, over and over again. Other than that, he mostly stayed away, like if the Asset wasn't his own personal toy he didn't want to play with him.

It meant, more and more, that Bucky could see Steve, Steve could touch him—brief moments framed by horror, but it was enough. Enough to keep _Bucky_ alive. 

Steve didn't know what Pierce wanted, didn't know what his end goal was, but he knew it wasn't going well. More and more when he sent Bucky out, he was frustrated, angry.

If it hadn't meant more pain for Bucky, Steve would have been pleased. As it was, he just watched Pierce closely, hoping every new day would be the day the balance shifted towards his death.

 

* * *

 

When they didn't need him, they put Bucky to sleep in the ice. Steve was almost relieved when it happened. At least he was safe there. No one could hurt him there. No one could make him kill there.

But the pain on either side was horrendous and Steve couldn't help him. There was no danger of death, no risk to _Bucky_ or to his body, so all he could do was watch, helpless, never looking away from Bucky's terrified eyes.

Watch and remember everyone involved.

They'd all die eventually.

 

* * *

 

Something big was coming, Steve could feel it, and all around the world more and more deaths could be laid at the feet of HYDRA.

They'd moved Bucky, freed him from the ice. Now Pierce was sitting in front of the chair, talking. "I have a job for you," he was saying. "The Helicarriers launch tomorrow. Unless we want Project Insight to stay nothing more than SHIELD's benevolent little spy program, we need to swap SHIELD's targeting chips for HYDRAs." Pierce thought he was talking to the Asset. But the Asset wasn't sitting in the chair; it was Bucky. "We haven't been able to do it from inside, which means I need you." Bucky's eyes stayed on Steve. He didn't look at Pierce. Pierce wasn't pleased.

"Likes the sound of his own voice, doesn't he?" Steve asked, stroking Bucky's right arm. Bucky's lips twitched, the tiniest of movements, nothing anyone would be able to notice. Steve cradled Bucky's face between his hands. "I'm here. I've got you, Bucky."

"Tomorrow morning's our chance to give the world a push." Pierce was still talking, waiting for some kind of response from Bucky. When he didn't get one, he turned to the closest white-coated tech. "I need him at a hundred percent, not this," he waved a hand at Bucky, "whatever this is. Did something go wrong with the thaw?"

"No sir. Sometimes he's..." The tech paused, shifting uneasily, eyes darting from Bucky to Pierce. "Just like this."

"Then prep him again so he stops being _like this_."

"He's been out of cryo too long."

"Then wipe him and start again."

Bucky wasn't responding to Pierce, still wasn't looking at him. Lips thin, Pierce stood and walked away. The techs pushed Bucky into the chair, the restraints came down, and Steve held Bucky while he screamed.

Held him until the balance tipped, Bucky's survival assured despite the wipe, and he faded from sight.

 

* * *

 

Steve stood next to the Soldier. For ten brief words, Steve had held Bucky, had been with Bucky, and then the Soldier had stolen him away.

Now the Soldier stood before Pierce, alert, masked and muzzled, taking his orders: be fast, be stealthy, take his team and infiltrate the Helicarriers. Lock down communications. Replace their chips before they reached twenty thousand feet. The satellite control team was HYDRA, so if he did his part the enemies of HYDRA, the enemies of order itself, would be eliminated in an instant. "I want all three Helicarriers. If you can't manage it, I'll take what I can get, but I want all three. Do you understand?"

The Soldier nodded.

"Then go." The Soldier went, his team following behind, Steve an invisible presence by his side.

No one seemed to be expecting an attack. They landed on the first Helicarrier, stealthy and smooth, the Soldier's team spreading out to take the Carrier. They were fast and efficient and Steve's power set spirits free, sending them on to their ever afters.

He followed the Soldier as he made his seemingly solitary way down to the gleaming bay that held the guts of the Carrier, its potential for death humming across Steve's skin, and pulled a square of metal and plastic from his pocket. He pried the existing chip free of its housing and slotted the new one into place.

Steve felt the potential deaths grow, singing power along his bones, but not enough. Not enough to be seen. Not enough to touch.

They lifted for the second Helicarrier, half the team left on the first to keep it locked down, and it was a repeat of the first. Steve trailed behind the Soldier as he swapped the second chip. The potential deaths grew. Still not enough, but close. So close.

He looked up at the Soldier as they ran back to the jet. Almost, he had the power to make himself seen. Almost, the power to touch.

Maybe. Maybe there was a chance.

The second half of the team was left behind and the Soldier lifted for the third, only Steve with him and he tried not to hope when hope had to come on the wings of so much death.

The Soldier cut a swath through the people on the third Helicarrier. As fast as the Soldier killed them, Steve spread his power to lift them free and send them on their way, so they wouldn’t suffer, so they wouldn't be afraid.

When there was no one left to resist, the Soldier made his way down to the control panel. Every step he took Steve felt the _potential_ tipping closer to _power_. It was rising around him and even as he hated what it meant, the sheer weight of death behind it, he welcomed it, was reaching for it, straining for it.

The Soldier slotted the new chip home and Steve called, voice soft, "Bucky."

Somehow, Steve wasn't surprised when he found himself staring down the barrel of a gun. He was a little surprised when he fired and half a dozen bullets passed through him. "Bucky," he chided softly. "That's not going to work."

That seemed to give the Soldier pause. Steve smiled gently and called him again. The Soldier ground his palm against his forehead, his whole body tense.

"Bucky." His head came up and his hand fell. "I know this isn't usually where you see me. I know this isn't how things usually go. But you've got a chance. If you can come back you can get away. It might be your only chance. Please come back to me."

Bucky lowered the gun. Steve stepped closer and flattened his palm against Bucky's chest, against the hard leather. Slowly, Bucky reached up and pulled off the mask, staring down into Steve's eyes.

"It's me. Can you take this off?" Steve touched the muzzle. "For me?"

After a long moment, Bucky holstered the gun and let the mask fall. It bounced away, falling over the side of the walkway, and he used both hands to undo the muzzle.

"There you are," Steve said, smoothing his fingers over the red marks it had left on Bucky's face. Bucky's expression was fearful, uncertain. "It's okay, Bucky."

"Steve," he said hesitantly. "You're here. Why are you here?"

"You know I'm always with you."

"But I can see you." Bucky's eyes were wide with confusion. The muzzle slipped unnoticed from his fingers. "Why can I see you? I only see you in the chair and, and before the Soldier."

"Shh, it's okay, Bucky. I know this is strange." Steve wrapped his hands around Bucky's right one, trying to choose his words carefully, trying to explain, and Bucky's fingers curled around his. "You know what I am."

"You're Death."

"That's right. With enough death I can make myself seen. I can touch you. It doesn't matter where we are." He freed one hand to press against Bucky's cheek and Bucky leaned into the touch, but his eyes were worried.

"What do you mean, with enough death?"

Steve squeezed his hand. "These machines, they're made to kill a lot of people, Bucky. A lot. And those chips they made you put in, they're going to let HYDRA go ahead and do it. I can feel it around me, all that death."

Bucky paled. "All those people are gonna die because of me?"

"It wasn't you. It's not you. It's never been you. You didn't have a choice."

"But it was still me, I'm still the one who did it." Steve squeezed Bucky's hand, not sure what to say, not sure how to make him believe it wasn't his fault. "Can I," Bucky turned to look at the gleaming silver chip, "can I undo it?"

"Bucky?"

Instead of answering, Bucky turned and yanked the chip out. The power that had built to a crescendo when Bucky had slotted the chip home, letting Steve make himself seen, faded when he pulled it free.

Steve didn't disappear. The world had shifted, Bucky poised in the balance point between life and death. "Bucky," Steve pressed closer, fighting for calm, "you might not survive."

"I remember," his brow wrinkled and Steve could tell he was fighting for the memory, "you saying you'd always take me, because I was _yours_. Did you mean it?"

"Yes."

"Then I don't care." His lips curved in a small, sad smile. "It's got to be better than this."

"Bucky." His name was barely a whisper and he stopped, not knowing how to finish.

"Can I do this?" he asked tentatively, hesitantly. "Steve, can I choose _this_? Am I allowed?"

He was really asking, Steve knew. If Steve said no, he'd put the chip back and do whatever Steve told him. In a voice that wanted to shake, that wanted to be a scream of protest, because Bucky needed to run, needed to _live_ , he forced himself to gently say, "If it's what you want, of course you can choose it."

Bucky crushed the chip between two metal fingers. "We'd better hurry." 

 

* * *

 

He led Steve to the jet and launched it, landing on the second Helicarrier. It was easy. The only people left to stop him were the HYDRA team he'd left behind and they weren't expecting the Soldier to land, guns blazing, and slaughter them.  

And it was a slaughter.

Steve left them in their bodies and opened their doors with a flick of power. There was not a one of them who hadn't hurt Bucky in some way; they could find their own way out of their dead bodies and into eternity.

Bucky pulled HYDRA's chip free, dropped it to the ground, and crushed it under his boot. Steve could see his hand was shaking.

He turned to go and Steve caught his arm. "Wait." Bucky gave a tiny flinch and Steve gentled his touch. "Just, can I?" He held out his arms and Bucky stared at him, uncertain and skittish, then he stepped forward and Steve closed his arms around him. Bucky clung to him and pressed his face into Steve's hair. "You're doing good, Bucky. So good."

"It's so hard."

"I know." Steve stroked his back. "I know."

After a minute, Bucky pulled in a deep, shuddering breath and when he lifted his head his expression was smooth, his eyes cool and calm, reminding Steve of the all times he'd seen Bucky pull Sergeant Barnes around him like a coat. "Let's go."

As they approached the last Helicarrier, Steve felt his power stir, would have felt it sooner if he'd been paying attention to anything besides Bucky. "There's people dying down there."

"Okay."

Steve could see fighting, people he guessed were SHIELD and the HYDRA team. Bucky dropped the jet down as far from the fighting as he could. Steve followed as he made his way towards the entrance to the belly of the Carrier, trying for stealth, but he was the Winter Soldier. He was noticeable. It wasn't long before he was forced to fight.

Bucky was hampered because, Steve soon figured out, he was trying not to hurt SHIELD's people too badly, was trying not to kill them. SHIELD had no such compunctions. Once HYDRA realised that, like SHIELD, Bucky was trying to kill _them_ , just like SHIELD they started trying to kill him. There were common enemies but no common cause, only chaos, collateral damage, and death.

It took too much time, too much attention, to sift through and pick out HYDRA from SHIELD, so Steve simply lifted the dying free and opened their doors: better to give the undeserving mercy than the innocent a taste of vengeance.

If Steve could have interacted with the world he'd have gone and pulled the chip himself. But he couldn't. All he could do was follow Bucky as he carved a path through to the chip, using the chaos as cover. He'd been shot, he was bleeding, but his body was meant to withstand damage and the metal arm was both weapon and shield.

Something exploded and Bucky used the distraction to make it to the guts of the Carrier and onto the walkway.

A man was waiting for them, his life in the balance between living and dying, his gun pointed at Bucky's head. Before Bucky could react, Steve pushed to the front, standing statue-still as the Helicarrier suddenly lurched around them. "Are you immortal?" The gun didn't waver but the man blanched as he met Steve's eyes. "Someday you're going to die and I'll be waiting. I'll remember the choice you made today."

After a long moment, the man put up his gun and staggered away, pushing past them out onto the deck.

Bucky pulled the chip free as another explosion rocked the Helicarrier, followed by another and another. It knocked him off his feet, would have sent him plummeting over the edge, but he grabbed hold of the barrier. He crushed the chip, let the glinting pieces fall as another explosion made him stagger. The Helicarrier began to tilt sideways, groaning like a wounded beast. A tearing crash pulled both their heads up and Bucky jumped back as chunks of the collapsing carrier smashed into the walkway, tearing it away from its moorings. It fell, taking Bucky with it.

Steve jumped after him, flashing back to a deep ravine and fallen snow.

He found Bucky pinned under a heavy steel beam. Steve couldn't lift it. Wouldn't have been able to even if it had been made of paper. Bucky's eyes were desperate as he stared up at Steve, blood growing in a pool beneath him. "Steve?"

An explosion tore through the side of the Carrier, sent smoke and flame roiling over them. The floor lurched, tipping further sideways. "I'm sorry, Bucky." He dropped to his knees, folded himself over Bucky, pressed their foreheads together. "I'm sorry."

"Did I do it? Did I stop it?"

"You stopped it. You did it, Bucky."

Bucky's laugh was rough and it ended on a choked, liquid note. "That's okay, then."

The crash of collapsing metal filled the air and wind whistled past them as the Helicarrier fell out of the sky.

Steve lifted Bucky's spirit free as they fell and gathered him close, holding him as tightly as he could. Bucky pressed his face into Steve's shoulder and closed his eyes. The Helicarrier smashed into the river and they slipped down through the murky water.  

As strong and as tough as Bucky's body was, it still needed to breathe. It was pinned at the bottom of a river.

It didn't take long for him to die.

"Don't let go," Bucky murmured, pressing closer to Steve.

"Never." Steve carried him up to the surface of the river, up into the light, away from Bucky's body and the wreckage of the Helicarrier.

Bucky clung to him, didn't lift his head from the hollow of Steve's neck. "Can I still stay with you?"

They were sitting on bank of the river, Bucky's spirit curled in Steve's arms. "Always, Bucky." Steve ran his hands in slow soothing strokes down his back. He was settling into something halfway between what he'd been when he fell from the train and what he'd been in HYDRA's hands, his left arm flickering between the ghost of metal and the ghost of flesh. "For as long as you want."

"Steve?"

"Yeah, Bucky?"

"How long did they have me?" Steve didn't reply, not sure if he should answer. He was still trying to decide when Bucky said, "Please. I want to know."

"Seventy years," he said, pulling Bucky closer.

"You were with me for all that time."

"I told you I'd never leave you. I never will."  

"Why?"

It made Steve pause, pulling back a little so he could look at Bucky. "What do you mean?"

"Why." Bucky lifted his head. "Why did you stay with me? Why will you never leave me?"

"I thought you knew." Bucky shook his head, a slow movement back and forth. "I love you."

"Even after everything?"

"Even after everything, always and forever." He cupped Bucky's cheek. "Or for however long you want. When you're ready to go, I'll open your door. I'd never keep you here, not if you didn't want to stay."

Bucky's eyes were suddenly nervous. "I don't want to leave you."

"Then you never have to. I just want you to know you can if you want."

The nervousness faded to be replaced by a puzzled frown. "Did I make you blush one time?" 

Steve dropped his chin, hiding his smile. "You did."

Bucky reached out with his right hand, hesitated, then tentatively touched Steve's bottom lip with one finger. "I think I might want to do that again. Sometime."

Steve carefully wrapped his hand around Bucky's and gently kissed the tips of his fingers. "You can take as long as you want, but I don't imagine it's going to be too difficult."

With a quiet sigh, Bucky put his head back down on Steve's shoulder. "I think I love you. I don't know. It's all mixed up in here." He rubbed his temple with his left hand, still shimmering between the memory of metal and the memory of flesh.

Steve ran his fingers through Bucky's hair. "It's okay, Bucky. However you feel is fine."

There were sirens splitting the air, people starting to swarm the banks of the river, the wreckage still smouldering in the distance. Bucky closed his eyes. "Take me somewhere else, somewhere far away."

"Where do you want to go?"

"Wherever you want to take me."

Steve took him to a rolling meadow with lush green grass spread under a brilliant blue sky. Bucky sat near an ancient tree and tipped his head back to let the warm, glowing sunlight wash through him. Steve settled next to him, leaning into his side, the silence broken only by birds calling as they flew overhead.

After a time, Bucky turned his head and pressed a kiss to Steve's temple and when Steve blushed, Bucky smiled against his skin.


	4. Epilogue: With All Honour to Him

When the body of the Winter Soldier was pulled from beneath the wreckage, SHIELD was determined to find out who he was. He'd been a ghost, an assassin, a mystery plaguing the world for decades.

They wanted him solved. 

It came as something of a shock when his DNA pinged the Defense POW/MIA Accounting Agency's database. The _World War Two_ section of the database.

It wasn't _his_ DNA in the database. It was the DNA of the sister of a soldier who'd been listed as Missing in Action since 1945, who'd been determined to make sure if her brother's body was ever found it _would_ be identified. She was gone now, had died a few years previous, but they covertly pulled his records, including a photo, and pronounced themselves satisfied to a ninety nine point nine percent certainty that the Winter Soldier had been James Buchanan Barnes.

An impossibly well-preserved James Buchanan Barnes.

When the red-haired woman found out, she recalled her encounter with Death. Remembered his words to her: _He's not who you think he is. He didn't want to do it. They took him, remade him into the Soldier. He's a victim, too._ Those words had resonated, because she too knew what it was to be remade.

There were only two people in the world she'd ever told about that day: her partner and the Director of SHIELD. If Death hadn't been lying to her that meant James Buchanan Barnes had been a prisoner, a victim, for who knew how long. Maybe for seventy years.

To both of them she said: If there's one person in the world you can trust to tell the truth, it's probably Death.

To her partner she added: the life we lead, I think we want Death on our side.

She made it her personal mission to see Sergeant Barnes buried as himself. Eventually, they gave in. Mostly because they were sick of fighting her and only a little because she scared them.

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th Infantry Regiment and the Howling Commandos was no longer listed as Missing in Action. The record of how and where his body was recovered was a complete fabrication, and he was buried without the metal arm in the most out-of-the way, obscure military graveyard SHIELD could find, but he was buried under his own name with full military honours.

When she died—some sixty years later of old age comfortably in her bed (which shocked no one more than it did her)—she was surprised to meet the man himself, holding hands with Death and apologising for shooting her. The warm, almost shy smile he offered when she told him what she'd done, the way Death's face lit up looking at him, sent her on to her ever after with a feeling of deeply contented satisfaction, knowing she'd done the right thing.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning Note from the Prologue:** The Archive Warning I chose not to use was major character death. Both Steve and Bucky die but they both continue on in the story after that happens. In the prologue Steve dies and becomes Death. Later, Bucky dies but he stays with Steve as a spirit.  
> 
> [Click to go back to the Prologue.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8504761/chapters/19490446#main)


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